Thief and Shadow
by arainyspringmorning
Summary: Eonwe is a young Nord who recently learned that she is the Dovahkiin. Whilst struggling to accept what she is, she comes across a man named Brynjolf and a guild full of secrets. Follow Eonwe as she attempts to break open the mysteries of the Thieves Guild, and to become the hero she has been chosen - by fate - to be in a story of hardships, lies and betrayal.
1. Ch1 - Escape the Embassy (Eonwe)

**A/N:** _To my dear readers: Thank you for sitting down to read my story. It means the world to me. However, I must note that this is a rough version of my first and much beloved story _Thief and Shadow. _This story is currently being rewritten, extended and heavily edited. I've left it for a little too long and the desire to "fix" things has finally won. I do hope that you will enjoy what I have written, but there will be no more than ten chapters to this version. The newer version will be submitted under a similar title in the future, so if you are interested, keep this story in the back of your mind. You'll find it eventually. Thank you, and happy reading._

* * *

The door hardly makes a sound as I press my palm to its chilly surface. I slip through like a shadow and peer through the railing into the prisoner pens below. The glimmering gold of armour glints as she passes under the beams in the ceiling. A notched arrow flies and she collapses to the floor, her hand only halfway to her crimson-dabbled throat.

I'm digging through the wooden chest, shuffling papers and flipping through journals one handed when I hear a grunt. The lid of the wooden chest slams down and I am whirling in a crouch, my bow and brows raised in alarm. There's nothing, only the emptiness of the dank walls and the smooth iron bars. I relax my arm slightly when I hear the grunt again. My eyes drop to the Altmer lying on the floor, and I creep towards her; I prod her with my bow, and then feel for her pulse, which is still, as I'd thought. Another grunt, this time behind me, sounds pained.

He's on his knees, his wrists clamped to the wall with cruel-looking shackles. His head hangs low and a bloody mixture of sweat streaks his too pale chest. I'm opening the gate to his cell and I'm crouching in front of him, my bow discarded beside me. The man is young, mid-twenties at least, and his eyes are closed. His cheeks are sunken, and there's purplish bruises covering all the skin that is visible. His ragged pants appear damp, and I feel my stomach clench in disgust and horror. How could anyone do such a thing to a person? I growl inwardly—the Thalmor would.

"Please…" he whispers, attempting to lean away from me. "I've told you everything." His breath is rancid and vaguely smells of iron, and it's enough to make me taste the wine from the party. I ignore my lurching gut and I reach out, smoothing back his tangled hair and he opens his eyes, although very slowly, in surprise.

"Who're you?" he rasps, guessing that I am not Thalmor. He can see the concern in my gaze, I can tell, and I suppose my poorly-fitted iron armor and braided hair suggests that I'm less than a mercenary. I hesitate on the thought, wondering exactly what I really am. To this prisoner—this young Breton—I just look like a girl with a hidden identity. I glance at the blood on his body and my mind clears. I know who I am.

"I'm here to help you," I reply gently, lifting onto one knee to study the shackles. It requires a key. I squeeze the Breton's shoulder gingerly and return to the dead Altmer, hesitantly feeling under her armor. My finger touches a key and I pull it free; I'm beside the Breton and unlocking the shackles with trembling fingers.

"Tell me your name. Where are you from?" I request as he slumps into me, wincing as his other arm is jerked as his weight pulls him forward. I use my shoulder to support him as I reach for the next lock.

"Etienne. Etienne Rarnis. I'm from…from Riften," he replies. I turn the key and he drops into my arms, limper than a doll. My hands press against his skin; I am taken by surprise for the muscles stretching under his skin and the litheness of his movements as he shifts onto his knees in front of me. I smile kindly and he curls his lip in something like a returning grin.

"Why are you here? They were talking about you upstairs about getting information out of you. Can you tell me anything? Anything…" I pause as a confused fear shines in Etienne's eyes—as he rethinks his trust in me. "Anything about a man named Esbern?"

"No, err…yes," Etienne grimaces as he attempts to stand. I wonder for just about how long he was down here, suffering. I remember the horse cart and the headsman's block...the heavy axe shining with blood…Alduin's red, beastly glare, and I shudder. Etienne looks at me oddly. "I…the Thalmor wanted to know about that man. I told them that I'd seen him in Riften. I've seen him in the Ratway…"

I help Etienne stand and I support him as we shuffle to the entrance of the pen. I hear the door slam above and we both drop at the sound of footsteps. Etienne's lips are firmly pressed together and I am picking up my bow as quietly as I can, my back pressed to the wood. Voices ring out behind me.

"Alright, spy. Come out, or we'll kill your little assistant!" a female shouts.

"No, wait!" My hand is closing around my mouth at the sound of Malborn's high-pitched plea. Etienne crouches in front of me, looking somewhere between frustrated and very afraid.

"I said 'Come out', now!" the Altmer repeats. "Turn yourself over or the Wood Elf dies."

"How many?" I whisper to Etienne. He shifts slightly to look. "There's two, one near the door, the other holding the Elf."

"Is Malborn on the left or right of her?" I specify.

"Right."

In a flash I rise onto one knee, whirl quickly and fire a notched arrow at the Thalmor soldier holding Malborn. He shrieks and scrambles away as the open-mouthed Altmer drops out of view with an arrow in her forehead. The other Thalmor is quick to move, but not quickly enough. My arrow finds the back of his neck as he makes for the stairs after a shrieking Malborn. His body strikes wood with a satisfying thump and I glance at Etienne with a raised eyebrow. His face breaks into a smile and I help him stand. Malborn rushes to our sides.

"Now the Thalmor will be after me for the rest of my life!" he complains, and I shove my dagger into his hand. His lip curls and I hand Etienne over to him to help stand. "C'mon, Malborn. Did you think I would let you die?"

"Yes!" he exclaims as I approach the newly fallen Thalmor. I find a silver key on him and return to the two boys who are waiting near a trapdoor, holding it up cheerfully.

"Let's get out of here," Etienne grimaces as Malborn staggers under his weight. I turn the key in the trapdoor's lock and lift the heavy metal to release a horrible waft of stinking rot and waste. All three of us gag and turn away.

"What on Nirn is that?" I cough.

"The Reeking Cave. The Thalmor use it for bodies," Etienne spits out a mouthful of bile onto the floorboards away from us and Malborn just about keels over. "I've seen them use it. It could be a way out though."

"But where are the bodies?" Malborn pipes up, looking pleasantly green. I look down, holding my breath, and see nothing but smeared blood and a series of rusty daggers. I glimpse a tuft of greasy white fur. "Troll," I breathe.

"And we're going down there?" Malborn sounds hysterical as Etienne and I look at him with equally irritated glares.

"Sorry. It's just…there's a troll down there!"

"Frost troll, by the looks of its fur colouring," I speculate. I plant my hands on my hips and turn to the Breton and the Bosmer. "I need the two of you to stay out of the way if we're going down there. A frost troll means business and I'm not about to let either of you die after all this." I hand Etienne the first Altmer's mace, which he takes with a frown. "If it gets to you, fight like you've never fought before. And watch its claws."

I drop down into the Reeking Cave, realizing how suitable the name of the place is. It stinks of sewage in the pit, and uncomfortably like rotting meat and troll's dung. Covering my mouth with one hand and conjuring a fireball spell in the other, I creep down the dripping passage with Malborn and Etienne close behind. Our footfalls are as quiet as feathers, and we are able to hear the busybody grunts of the troll further ahead.

Peering over the ledge grants me a spectacular view of a desiccated Nord's corpse clutched in the deformed hands of the creature. Its fur is almost brown with the amount of blood and dirt in it, and, frankly, it stinks. I let my fireball heat my hand before I let it fly right into the back of the creature's head. The troll roars in pain and looks around wildly. I shoo Malborn and Etienne back just as its half a dozen eyes fall on me.

I know fear. It is a cold grip of suffocating pain that's only an imagined ghost. While not physical, it's enough to scar someone permanently, and it does. Alduin induced that fear, my first dragon fight and soul absorption induced fear, the laugh of the Draugr brought upon that fear too. But I had never felt a fear like this one before.

Not until the shining eyes of the flaming frost troll found me.

"Get back!" My command is a scream that sends Malborn and Etienne stumbling away. I fling another fireball at the frost troll and draw my steel sword from its sheath. The troll guffaws and gurgles in annoyance, making its way towards us with bloodthirsty eyes. I throw another fireball, this time forcing the beast to pause and cover its face with a mumbling howl. A spark of courage leaps through me and I move, spinning in a circle and slicing my sword across the troll's chest. The troll shrieks and before it can even fling out its arms and bellow, my blade is sliding through its skull.

Hot breath smelling vaguely of a wet dog rushes into my face and its claws reach out, screeching loudly down the back of my iron armor. I close my eyes, unable to look into the troll's face as its eyes roll white and it dies, inches from my pursed lips and trembling eyelids. My hand opens and the troll drops to the ground with a thump, my sword still embedded in its forehead. I can't bring myself to touch it.

Etienne's reassuring hand on my shoulder makes me jump and I nearly wet my pants. I look at him, my troll blood-splattered face blank with nausea, and Malborn breaks the silence with an awkward cough. The spell of fear broken, we climb down the ledge together and peer under the lip of the troll's cave. I spot something pink and shiny, and I am drawn towards it.

It's a beautiful pink stone, cut into a jewel's shape, hovering in an opened box. Malborn joins my side, his crimson gaze brightening as it falls on the stone. "What is that?" he asks.

"I'm not sure. But isn't it pretty?" I smile. I close the box reluctantly and tuck it into my pocket amongst my lockpicks and fairly small coin collection. I gather a discarded health potion and a coin purse holding a slight weight to it. An unfortunate necromancer lies in a gruesome pose on the floor of the cave, her pale eyes staring. I wonder if the stone was hers.

"Let's go," I murmur, turning away from the scene. The two of us make for the end of the cave and breathe in the smell of cold air. Around the corner, moonlight seeps in with a gust of bitterly cold wind but I have no air feels good on my filthy face.

We step out into what is early morning light. The moons are falling into the hills and a pink glow is in the distance. The trees are laden with snow and the air outside the tunnel is somehow open and endless. Etienne, Malborn and I stare out at where the sun is only a pink curve in the distance and I sigh.

"We made it."


	2. Ch2 - Little Wonder (Brynjolf)

Riften is quiet, which isn't too strange since the city is always still and rare when it comes to action. Apart from the voices in the marketplace, and Maven Black-briar teaching some poor chap a lesson on 'where to look when bypassing such an important individual like herself', Riften is quiet. Even Brand-Shei is silent, which isn't odd but is somehow unusual. He's always barking out deals of every sort to the same customers from yesterday.

The sounds from within The Bee and Barb are muffled from where I stand outside the door. I can hear Marcurio—the snobby "Apprentice Wizard"—chatting up someone with a promise of "gouts of arcane fire" and other mage nonsense. Only an idiot would hire such a nuisance; the moment one drops five hundred gold in his palm, all they'll hear is some more nonsense about carrying their load. _Well, Marcurio,_ I think grimly. _That's why you get the five hundred gold. To carry someone else's pile of-  
_  
I see him staggering along the boardwalk in front of Mercer Frey's house, and I'm following, rounding around Sniff's sitting spot and crossing the bridge with a careless air. No one's eyes follow, and I make no sudden shifts in my leisurely gait. I follow the cloaked figure into the graveyard behind the Temple of Mara and catch him by his arm. Etienne jumps and whirls to face me like I'm a bloody dragon, or worse, Maven.

"Where in Tamriel have you been, lad? Mercer's been climbing up the walls wondering where you went off to!" I hiss. And then I see his face, gaunt and pale. I take the edge of his frayed cloak and tug it open, revealing a chest marred by fresh scars and deformed by jutting ribs. In his hand, he clutches a dagger.

"What happened?" My voice deepens with concern and Etienne's eyes grow moist with unhappy tears. I pull the cloak back around him, and lead him into the sarcophagus with a supportive arm around the shivering Breton's shoulders.

...

"The Thalmor, eh?" Mercer says, rubbing the stubble on his chin with a thoughtful expression. "It's good to know who our enemies are, am I right, Brynjolf?"

I nod. Etienne had just finished telling us what happened at the embassy. His description, so detailed, had left many of us a tad disturbed. I'd seen Vex flutter back out into the bar with such a pale face that was ought to get a sly remark out of ol' Delvin.

"The Thalmor will definitely send their soldiers here to search the Ratways, and this is the easiest route through to there. We'd best be expecting company in a matter of days, since Etienne was there only two days ago," I say. "I bet that they'll be disguised. If I were them, I'd want to blend in and avoid trouble."

"Yes, yes," Mercer replies, a little distantly if so. "Which is why you'll be the one doing just that. Since Etienne needs to replenish his energy, I'm sure that you'll be willing to handle it."

My thoughtful frown drops away and I stare at Mercer in annoyance. "Why do I have to do everything? Send Vex. Or better yet, send Sapphire. She hates it down here anyway-"

"No, I'm sending you. I need someone reliable up there, someone with keen eyes and a persuasive personality," Mercer's voice loosens and a smirk lightens his features. "You'll open up that stall and sell that crate of health mixtures Delvin managed to snag. Tell them it's some kind of magic tonic, or maybe call it 'Falmer Blood Elixir'. I'm sure they'll find that quite fetching, a-ha-ha-ha!"

"As you say, boss," I grumble, rubbing the back of my neck tiredly. I make to step away and look for the crate, but Mercer beckons me back: "If the Thalmor do show up, come to me straight away. I don't need a fight breaking out in the marketplace and letting everyone know of our business. This stays private, understand?" His voice is grating.

"Yeah," I reply. Mercer's eyes glint and he looks back down at the papers on his desk.

"Oh, Mercer," A thought comes to mind. "What do I do if the girl comes here?"

"What girl?" Mercer asks without looking up.

"The girl who freed Etienne? Didn't he mention her?"

"Oh, yes," Mercer shoves the papers to one side of his desk and straightens, his eyes fixed on a point behind my head. "Make sure she isn't Thalmor. She could be a tracker of some type, meant to release Etienne and follow him to Riften to get to this 'Esbern'". Mercer shrugs and reaches for an age-flattened book under his desk. "The kid is smart. He should know the difference."

Mercer grows distant again as he pages through the book and grunts something under his breath about the 'East Empire Company'. I run my fingers through my hair and hear Rune and Sapphire arguing over an ingredient in the cooking pot, while Niruin lifts the ladle to his mouth to try it. Vipir passes me with a cheery smile and says, "It's good to see Etienne back home."

I find Etienne sitting on his bed. I put on a smile for the poor laddie and sit beside him. His chest and his arms are bandaged, and some kind of poultice has been smeared across the cuts on his face. He smells of ground-up roots and flowers now, unlike the horrid troll stench that wafted from his skin earlier.

"Feeling better, Etienne?" I ask. He nods and winces as he moves a shoulder.

"I overheard your conversation with Mercer and I wanted to ask…" he hesitates. "W-when you're up there watching for Thalmor, keep an eye for that girl, too. She saved my life, and I want to thank her," he requests with a hopeful smile. I sit on the bed next to the boy and stare at his bruised jutting cheekbone for a second.

"What's she look like?"

"I didn't get the best look at her. She's shorter than me and she was a Nord. The lighting in the prison was awful and I couldn't see well either. I do remember she carried a bow," he replies, giving me a very slight picture to work with. _This girl could be anyone!_ "She was skilled with that bow. She took down two Thalmor just like that!" he snaps his fingers.

"Are you sure she wasn't meant to release you and, I don't know, follow you here?" I ask lightly. Etienne looks not only confused, but uncertain, and my stomach flips in worry. "I don't…I just know that she rescued the two of us. She killed the Thalmor without hesitation…"

"Etienne, I have to know. If she comes here, she could be a regular mercenary or a Thalmor plant. She wouldn't hesitate for any instances if it were her job," I try to be gentle. Etienne is chewing his lip as he struggles to wade through what will already be blurred memory.

"She wasn't a mercenary. She…she was just a girl," Etienne concludes. "I can't tell you what she was, Brynjolf. I just know that I'm happy to be out of there. But I know one thing for certain." A bright light shimmers in Etienne's eyes as he turns to me. I tilt my head in question.

"She'd be a wonder if she joined the guild," he smiles regretfully. "An absolute wonder…"

...

I remember Etienne's words as I stand in the market stall with a bottle of "Falmer Blood Elixir" in my hand, shouting out some enthralling lie about it and gathering curious eyes. I don't care for the money the odd folk drops on a bottle—although it is amusing to watch them uncork it and try a sip—or the humoured faces cast in my direction. I'm on the job, my eyes watching for any strange figures in the shadows. Five days come and go, and for five days I hardly sleep, waiting to defend my guild from any dangers. I'm an honest man, as far as honesty in a guild of thievery and lies goes and, although I've broken promises and betrayed those I could have once called my friends, I keep my word to Etienne, watching for the girl who doesn't seem to want to show. But after those five days, I begin to wonder if it's worth it to stand in the variable weather of Frostfall, and I wonder if Etienne's tale was nonsense or perhaps a dream.

And one day, when the divines are pissing on us for a second day in a row and bellowing their laughter across the stormy grey sky, and we are all huddling in The Bee and Barb for warm drinks and food, a girl is leaving as I am coming down the stairs from my rented bed on the upper level. She wears iron armour several sizes too big and ruined from misuse, and a Dwarven bow gleams dully on her back in dire need of a good cleaning. Her eyes seem too big for her face and far too wary to believe her to be a mercenary. Her hair is brown and braided atop her scalp while wet, tangled locks are nestled inside the top of her breastplate. She's as skinny as a rat, weary in the shoulders and shivering from the adjustment of cold to warm, but she holds a grace that only warriors bear.

It's her.


	3. Ch3 - Damp Wood (Eonwe)

Riften is a dull little city, all weathered wood and crumbling stone, lit up by flaming braziers and torches in the rapidly closing daylight. Everything stinks of mold and water or tavern wood smoke. The people are mean-faced and bitter-voiced. To top my unpleasant first visit to Riften, it is raining harder than a dragon can beat tree branches with its wings.

After hardly managing to walk through the northern gate with the guardsman certainly smirking behind his steel mask, I'm looking upon a waterlogged city hidden by fog. The air tastes of earth and the sky is hardly hidden by the towering grey walls of a large inn and multiple homes lining the cobblestone street. Water flows between the cracks underfoot, leading to an insecure-looking bridge and a not-too-distant marketplace. I hear the ragged cawing of a crow in the distance. I feel unwelcome here.

It isn't hard to know when you're being watched. It's a queer and vulnerable feeling, being under someone's eye as though you're under their boot or the tip of their sword. I am hesitant to raise my head, but I do, and I see a figure disappear down a path through a gate behind the houses. I intend to follow, but I realize how sluggish and weak I am from the long walk here, and I envision a warm bed and dry clothes that is far too pleasant to ignore.

A Khajiit brushes by me and crosses over the one bridge aligned with the door to the large tavern, so I take the next bridge closer to the other near the vacant little house looking out onto the black lake, and wander between the walls of the tavern and a shop called _The Pawned Prawn. _I see a blacksmith working late into the evening, pounding a red-hot sword on an old anvil. He hums as he works, his song broken by the sharp _ping, ping, ping _of his hammer. The marketplace is empty and the tavern is noisy. Only moments ago the sun was shining over the hills, but I suppose the rainy evening was enough to change anyone's mind.

Following my absent merchants' examples, I head for the door of the tavern, the smell of baking meat pies and grilled salmon teasing my nose. I reach for the handle but see a flicker at the corner of my eye, and I look just in time to see the Khajiit that passed me at the bridge whisk just out of sight. I realize that seeing her before was no mere coincidence, and I watch her disappear behind the wall in front of the Temple of Mara as though she believed she hadn't been seen. Alert, I follow quickly, my feet bouncing quietly over the bridge and my iron armor clunking loosely against my lithe frame. I stop at the wall, noting that all guards are non-existent with the exception of the one at the front gate and the other disappearing behind the tavern. I pull my bow over my head and notch an arrow in it before poking my head around the corner of the tall stone wall.

Nothing.

Not fooled, I enter the little courtyard bow-first, prepared to bring down anything that might come at me. I see nothing in the light of the two giant braziers at the top of the stairs to the temple, but there are still enough shadows to hide at least thirty souls. I hardly register that the rain has almost stopped as I reach the tall columns keeping the temple up, but the musky light of early night is playing tricks with my eyes.

Too late, I see the glint of a dagger soaring towards my face, and I feel the blade slice my jaw as I turn away clumsily. A ragged hiss explodes in my ears and I am striking the ground, my bow bouncing off the weed-concealed tiles and skittering away. I scramble to stand but the Khajiit is faster. She has fistful of my hair in her clawed hand and a dagger to my throat, her one foot at the small of my back. I draw in an irregular breath as the serrated edge picks the vulnerable expanse of skin like small teeth. I'm unable to yell for help.

"And now you pay for meddling in the Thalmor's affairs," she snarls, her face coming into view upside-down above my head, and a streak of fury courses through me as her words register. The _shout _is a violent wave of force that sends the Khajitt assassin soaring backwards and slamming into the column behind. I'm scrambling to my feet and reaching for my bow when I hear her hiss of distress. I whirl on my toes, an arrow notched in place and let it fly as the assassin launches herself at me with a caterwaul. The arrow buries itself in her chest squarely between her breasts and she thumps to the ground. Her tail twitches once, then is still.

Searching her body finds me eight gold and a hastily folded letter. I open it and read the words quickly, my throat tightening with words I'd best not speak as I discover that she truly was a Thalmor plant. An elegant letter 'E' has been written at the bottom of the letter, and I crumple it in my hand.

I drag the Khajiit to the sarcophagus to the side of the church, noticing a diamond-shaped symbol cut into the stone with a circle of metal in the middle. The symbol is strangely familiar; I've seen something like it elsewhere in my travels, but I cannot place it. I consider leaving a short note on the Khajiit, but I think better of it. Best to leave some loose ends and avoid trouble.

It has grown cold and late. Masser and Secunda shine in the star-speckled sky amongst green and pink clouds of light, somehow warming the chill creeping under my damp armor. Thoughts of soft furs and a warm fireplace are alluring and drag my eyes longingly toward the tavern where ash-grey smoke drifts out of the chimney and into the sky.

But sense and the stringing cut on the side of my face remind me that I'm in no position to walk into the tavern, plunk down at the bar and guzzle a meat pie and ale like any other warrior. I'm here on a mission to look for someone who doesn't want to be seen; shouldn't I at least attempt to remain unnoticed as well? After giving the guardsmen at the gates a hard time and killing a Khajiit before the Temple of Mara, I'm certain that the Jarl would fling me out of the city gates faster than one can say "Dragonborn".

I settle for sleeping on the ground behind the last house on the row. A barrel and a tipped-over cart block the frequent gusts of cold wind howling between the houses, and I listen to the distant tavern music and smell the baking meat pies as my eyes somehow close.


	4. Ch4 - Warm Welcome (Eonwe)

"Hey, wake up, kinsman."

I moan groggily and turn onto my back, bright light stinging my eyes and making me wince. I feel a bud of warmth near my head and I hear the sound of armor scraping as someone leans close to me. I peer out one crusty eyelid at a guard stooping over me, holding a torch near my face.

"I said 'Wake up'!" The guard repeats, shoving at my shoulder mildly. My reply is a gravelling growl smeared with drool, and I feel my muscles spasm and hear my bones crack noisily as I struggle into a sitting position. The guardsman 'harrumphs' in grim satisfaction and leaves. I rub what feels like sand out of my eyes and I vaguely wonder if he kicked dirt into my face or not. Either way, I feel as awful as I must look.

The ground is coated with a thin sheet of frost and it is raining harder than yesterday. I wonder how I possibly lived through the night in wet armor. The cut on my face is burning like fire and I don't have to see it to know it's infected, and my chest feels sticky from where the cloth under the iron dried against my breasts. I pat my pockets and I relieved to hear the cheery clinking of my gold coins.

It's nearly six in the morning, but then again it might be later, since Riften is subject to cloud coverage and gloominess oozing from her people. I stagger to my feet, hearing my hip pop back into place, and think about if hearing my bones making such noises at so young an age is healthy or not as I wander between the houses and back onto the main street. I stay away from the front gate for now to avoid the curious looks from the guard. I cross the bridge, bypassing a Redguard man looking rather impatient and flustered as he seemingly waits for someone, and push open the door to the tavern—The Bee and Barb. What a suitable name for a fishing and honey-making community.

"People of Riften, heed my words!"

For a moment, I believe that I'm back in Whiterun as a voice of power and authority rings out. A man in deep yellow robes stands in the middle of the tavern amidst Riften's on-looking citizens chowing down eggs and beef for breakfast. His arms are spread like Heimskr's and he continues in a booming, if not slightly insane, voice: "The return of the dragons is not mere coincidence. This is one of the signs—the signs that Lady Mara is displeased with your constant inebriation."

"Maramal, it's far too early for your preaching," a black-haired woman with pointy features snaps, gracefully flinging down a quill and glaring at the priest. "Return to your temple and leave us in peace."

Maramal glares at the woman with what I suppose was seething rage, and he flings his arms out even wider as he continues even louder than before: "Put down your flagons filled with vile liquids and embrace the teachings of the handmaiden of Kyne!"

"Maramal, Maven told you to get out!" a crabby voice speaks up from the back of the tavern. I lean onto one foot to glimpse a pale-skinned Argonian woman wiping dry a dish. Her lizard-like face, that reminds me vaguely of a dragon, is the colour of cream and looks very flustered. "Just, oh…Talen, do something before I do, please!" A green-skinned Argonian wielding a broom comes through between two of the tables, exasperation clear on his face.

"Do as Maven and Keerava ask of you," he says much more kindly than the formers. "We appreciate your efforts and your passion, but not here, Maramal. Take your words back to the temple, and if we want to hear them, we will come. That's it, nice and easy." He guides the distraught-looking priest to another door and as it closes behind him, and the first woman who spoke up—Maven—stands and makes a show of wiping her hands on a cloth before leaving with a man who looks eerily alike to her. I watch them leave, Maven pushing the Argonian aside oh-so-lightly. The Argonian hisses once the door closes.

I take a hesitant step forward, the tantalizing aroma of grilled chicken, lean cuts of steaming beef, strips of savoury salmon, and the delicious tang of roasted garlic heads and grilled leeks. I cannot help but shiver, and I make my way to the bar, my fingers slipping into my pocket to shuffle my few coins and remind myself that they're there.  
"So long as you have coin, you're welcome in my bar," the pale Argonian woman says without looking up from sweeping, as if she knew that I am fiddling with my money. "I don't hand out food for free, Nord."

"Ah, yes," I stutter. I place five gold coins on the counter. "I'll have baked potatoes."

"Want some butter with them?" the Argonian asks, plunking down a steaming potato in front of me from a hidden cooking pit and slicing it in half with a knife. I nod, and she retrieves a tankard with yellow liquid in it. She places my potatoes in a bowl, cuts an 'x' in the center with the knife and pours some of the melted butter on top. She takes three of the coins and pushes two back towards me, hands me a fork, then resumes sweeping the floor.

I pull what's left of my money from my pocket and count it quietly in my palm, and cringe. I have enough for a bed for the night, but I'm hardly certain that nine gold coins will buy new armour, let alone pants and a shirt or even a plain dress. I fidget uncomfortably in my armour and tuck my coin back into the pouch in my pocket before taking a cautious bite. The potato is warm and tastes earthy, and the butter is hot and salty. It's the most delicious thing I can imagine, and I find myself swallowing mouthfuls of the piping-hot food. I finish faster than I'd intended, and the Argonian cocks an eyebrow before placing the bow in a rack with sauce-smeared plates and cups dripping amber-coloured liquid.

"Thank you," I say and the Argonian nods briskly as I turn to leave. Belly full and warm with food, I head to the door and reach for the barb-shaped handle, but am suddenly stumbling backwards and out of the way as a Dunmer in fine clothing comes in stinking of honey-laced mead. I hear a muffled clink on the floor and turn to look as the Dunmer presses between myself and a red-haired man. I am hardly beginning to bend down to pick up my fallen coin purse when a large pale hand swoops down and scoops it up first. I feel my hackles raise and I gasp, my fingers curling into an instinctive fist. I reach for my scimitar under my breastplate, and the man's hands rise in surrender.

"Whoa, lass. I'm only just returning it to you," He's startled and his voice is a thick brogue. He's tall, taller than me, and twice as broad in the shoulders. His hair is thick and dark auburn, cut roughly and framing an apologetic-appearing smile. I reach out my hand and he carefully places the pouch in my palm. I shove it into my pocket quickly and sheath my half-drawn scimitar.

"Running a little light in the pockets, lass?" the Nord continues. I look away, my hand reaching for the door handle. "My wealth is none of your concern," I mutter coldly, no hint of a thank you on my tongue, pulling open the door and stepping out into the marketplace. The Nord's hand stops the door from swinging closed and I sense him pressing into my space from behind.

"Actually," he begins. "Wealth is my business."

I don't turn but my ears are straining as I move around the building in an attempt to create a quick path to the main gates. I'm starting to feel threatened and paranoid; there are eyes everywhere and my reason for being here is exposed. My own innocent identity is crumbling rapidly. I consider leaping over the edge of the walkway to sink to the murky bottom of the canal, hidden, out of sight. It wouldn't be much use since I cannot swim worth a single septim.

I duck around the back corner of The Bee and Barb and start to make a run for it over the bridge by the vacant house, but I'm suddenly trapped between a wall and a locked gate parallel to the vacant house. I have no time to run, and the next thing I know, my face is inches from the auburn-haired Nord and I'm being backed up against a wall. His hands press the wood on either side of my head and he studies me with narrowed eyes. I cannot blink. _I mustn't._

"Who are you?" he snarls, dropping the façade and revealing an incredibly intimidating man. His face is inches from mine and I have trouble focusing on both shining green eyes. "Why are you in Riften?"

"I'm here on business, and it's none of yours," I retort, a rush of irritation prickling under my skin. A dagger is up against my neck less than a heartbeat later and I gasp at the cold edge of it. The gloomy feeling of despair bites deep.

"I'll ask you the question one more time," the Nord growls. "Who are you _and why are you here?"  
_  
Against my will, I whimper, and all of my courage seeps out of me and nearly leaves me a trembling mess. I feel so angry and ashamed to be undone so easily by a single man.

"I'm looking for someone." I manage to say.

"Who are you looking for?" he says icily, never missing a beat. I glare at him, the dagger still hovering in a hazardous position.

"Brynjolf."


	5. Ch5 - Golden Opportunities (Brynjolf)

When the lass utters my name, her gaze fixed directly upon my own, I'm left dumbfounded and a little astonished. I'm not quite sure if it's because she said it or because I was expecting her to say 'Esbern'. For a foolish moment, I even wonder if she knows me, but I quickly rule that out of my thoughts as it makes no sense. I lean away, sheathing my dagger and start to apologize when the bow is suddenly whirling off her back and a sharp little arrowhead is pointing at my face. Her eyes, round and doe-like only a moment before, are flaming green orbs. I back away.

"And who are you?" she hisses.

"Put that down, lass," I warn. Like in the tavern, my hands are raising in surrender. The guard isn't at the main gates, where he should be just through the locked iron gate beside us. The girl bares her teeth in a feral grin, noticing the flutter of uncertainty in my features, and I grimace at giving away my inner thoughts so easily. I'm suddenly an open book.

"I asked 'Who are you'?" she repeats. I can feel her ire coiling and writhing like a caged animal; she has good control over her emotions but her hand is visibly shaking and her lips don't seem to know whether to smile or frown. I take a stolen moment to observe her a little more—she's not dangerous but she's defensive. She protects herself with steel-barred walls of rock, in which her secrets and identity are fluttering like a caged bird. I see distrust, frustration…

…Insecurity.

This girl, this warrior archer with a whirling storm of emotions in her eyes, is not Thalmor.

"I won't hurt you," I decide to say, hoping I will appear peaceful. She doesn't seem to buy it as her hand tightens on her bow. "But I fear that _you _will hurt _me_ if I tell you my name," I add.

"I believe that I have already guessed what your name is," she murmurs as her mind visibly clicks in understanding. "Brynjolf." Her bow lowers to my chest, a target that is larger but also easier to endure. Her attention is completely on me, and there's something about her that I like, despite the fact that I'm the prey under her jaws. I'm usually never in this sort of predicament, but I daren't move a toe out of line.

I've faced several occasions where my life was on the line. When the rabble underneath Riften got out of hand a few years back, I suffered a permanent scar to my face that saw the petty little bugger out the door faster than one can shout, "Thief!" A few inches lower would have seen my lifeblood pouring into the cistern and a body being buried in the little cemetery outside the sarcophagus. Luck was on my side that day, something I haven't seen for nearly twenty five years. Well, perhaps until now.

"Why were you looking for me?" I ask.

"I was told that you could point me towards Esbern. Know him?" she asks.

I know who she's talking about. All of us in the guild have seen the shambling, muttering old man. I remember taking food and a blanket to him once only months ago, and he was almost too frightened to open the heavily bolted door. It was impossible to forget that kind of fear when you see it; the only time I see it is after someone realizes they've been snitched of a precious item or, less commonly, when a child is lost in the street.

But here in front of this young lass, I know I can't tell her anything about the old man. She's proved she isn't a Thalmor agent, I'm too far gone in the belief that she is the person who saved Etienne. I long to make some kind of comment and see her reaction, but I have to be careful. The arrow is still pointed dangerously close to my heart, and from what Etienne said about her and bows, she's not someone to mess with carelessly.

But…it's too tempting to let this opportunity pass on. I decide to mess with her mind in a way I know she won't refuse—with her empty pockets. I'm hugely certain that the plan curling about my brain will work.

"I told you that I deal in wealth," I say and she nods ever-so-slightly. "Perhaps you'd like a taste of what I do?"

"What do you mean?" Her answer is quick as a whip. She's likely as smart. I have to play this safe, gain her interest, find her trust. I slide into my persuasive tongue and ease into what I do best.

"I have a bit of an errand to preform, and I need an extra pair of hands. I'd bet every single one of these hundred septims in my pocket that you'd be willing to help," I smile convincingly. The girl noticeably struggles before murmuring a flat, "Go on."

"I need you to...collect something. In the market, an Argonian named Madesi runs a jewelry stall. Beautiful jewelry, and decent prices," I explain, purposefully beating around the bush. "There is another merchant, a Dark Elf named Brand-Shei. A client wants to see him put out of business and to sulk a few days in Riften jail."

The lass lowers her bow and chews the inside of her lower lip. I have her in the palm of my hand, and I am nearly dancing in joy. I can see her lugging in a bag of gold to the guild and all of us sharing bottles of ale, and I swear I feel a ray of sunshine on my head.

"Look, Brynjolf," she says, slightly exasperatedly. "I'm just here to look for a friend of a friend and to go home. I'm not looking for a job, whatever it may be. I have one and you're stalling me."

"Is that a no?" I exclaim. I've been snubbed! By the Eight, what is this lass made of?

"Dragons are bad for business," she utters very quietly, as though she is sharing a secret. There's a slight rise to her shoulders, a stiffening of the spine, a tightening of the mouth. My disappointment blazes like a wildfire.

"Passing on a golden opportunity is worse!" I snap, attempting to change her mind, but her mind is indeed set from the pursing of her lips. "It's not a hard job. I just need you to steal Madesi's silver ring from under his stall and plant it on-"

It takes a second for it to sink in, but when it does, I'd almost rather have her pointing the arrow at my face. "Are you insane? You want me to steal a ring and plant it on _an innocent person?! _Who do you think I am? _A thief?!_"

I start to back away as her voice raises, her words striking the nail on the head and making my face turn redder than a tomato. Embarrassed and mortified with myself for pleading like a child, I stumble over my next words, but I am more humiliated to have to admit defeat: "Sorry. I usually have a nose for this kind of thing."

"Not this time," she hisses. "Find someone else that's easier to pawn."

As she whirls away from me, I can't help but watch her go. Her slight frame, those silent footfalls, a watchful green gaze…she's the perfect thief, and I'm letting her walk away. Hope is crushed like a beetle underfoot of a thousand marching soldiers. I suddenly wonder if she was spinning her magic on me the whole time and drawing me into a place I didn't know. A place of danger and surprise and…wonder. I understand Etienne's meaning of his words now.

The lass is definitely an absolute wonder.


	6. Ch6 - Choices Made for Us (Eonwe)

Rather than entering The Bee and Barb and swallowing a bottle of mead like I want to, I decide to disappear from sight. I long the comfort of lonely solitude.

I wander down to the lower levels by following a set of rickety stairs near Honourhall Orphanage, from which the sounds of a shouting woman and crying children echo. I hear the sharp _thwap! _of a belt and my heart pinches, going out to whatever poor child stepped out of line.

The lower levels of Riften are bleaker than Bleak Falls Barrow; how it is possible amazes me. The weathered wood is weak and knotted, coloured grey and slick with slime from being exposed to the stinking canal and the cool shadows. Fungus drips from the above boards, and I sit on a barrel tipped sideways beside a metal gate. A torch burns next to it, dying meekly as water drips onto the flaming material and causes it to sizzle every few seconds.

I sit with my elbows on my knees and my chin in my palms, not a very comfortable position on a barrel that shakes back and forth as I balance on my toes of my worn iron boots. My eyes gaze upwards at the shadows moving above on the upper walkways. I listen to the merchants in the circle shouting out dropped prices and new items. A woman Dark Elf claims her meat is clean and free of Rockjoint; the Argonian—Madesi—speaks of beautiful jewelry and gleaming gemstones. I hear other voices beckoning, arguing or calling, except for one: Brynjolf's. Thinking of him stirs something within me that feels wicked and bitter.

I pull my bow off of my back and hold it in both hands, staring at the blemished Dwarven gold engravings, running my fingers along chips and scuffs. The thin string twangs with its own little song and I close my eyes as the sound ripples, bringing images of hunting to mind. I sit still for a long time, listening to the water gurgling under the boards and the muffled clamour coming from within the metal gate. I think of everything that has happened to me so far, and rather than finding resentment or fear, I am simply distraught.

Being the Last Dragonborn is something I haven't and may never come to terms with. With a _Thu'um _burning constantly in my soul and my destiny undeniably ill-fated, I cannot imagine happiness or peace. The Greybeards focus on meditation while the Blades chase after battle; I wish to do neither but was it ever my choice? Did I truly ever have a choice at who I was going to be? I feel trapped in this life with all these pre-chosen choices in front of me, and I long to summon a _Shout _and hurl them as far away as possible. I would rather hide in the corner than face my future, but it'll catch up with me eventually and I know I'll never outrun it.

I lay my bow at my feet and reach into my pocket to retrieve my coin purse. The fabric is limp in hand and the few coins in the bottom would hardly even make a _thump _on the ground. My mind sees ahead to another night spent outside and no food, and with a groan, I drop my head into my hands. I want to go home, back to the forests of Greenheart, even the tavern in Burma. I feel tears among my eyelashes and I remember home with an aching heart.

...

"_Pa has a present for you," Ma says, giving me a little push out the door of our little cottage. I race outside, excitement bubbling in my mind as I dash out onto soft green grass and clover. Pa is sitting at the base of the giant oak tree on the stump, a long slender object in hand. I approach almost shyly, my eyes fixed on the wooden object._

"You're nine today, Eonwe," Pa says. "This bow was your grandfather's and my first bow. It is now yours."

The bow is long and cream in colour, the grip scarred leather and the string new and tied firmly in the little notches. I tug on the string, giggling as it twangs. It's so beautiful, and in my mind, I imagine myself hunting deer in the forest with Pa.

The next few months are difficult but benefitting. I learn how to fire arrows at large disks of wood hung from tree branches or at archery targets. Huge black and purple bruises form on the inside of my elbow but it doesn't stop me. The arrows nick my fingers and the string smacks my cheek, but I don't cry. I want to be an archer, a famous hunter, known all across Valenwood and maybe even into the other provinces.

"Pa," I say one night as he tucks me into bed only days after I turn thirteen. "Will I be as good an archer as you some day?"

"I believe so, little lass," he replies, kissing me on the forehead and smiling. "You might even be better, so long as you keep working hard. Imagine that the bow is part of your arm, a part of your body. It is connected to you, obeys you and only you. The more you make the bow your own, the more it will become part of your soul."

"But it's wood," I say.

"Ah, it may be wood, but doesn't wood come from trees? Trees mumble and whisper in the wind. They breathe and soak up the sunshine. They drop and grow their leaves. Trees are just as alive as you and I. They just might have souls too, and I'm certain your bow's soul is fiery like yours, little lass." Pa glances at my bow resting against the chair in the corner of my bedroom. "Relish in your skill and become the bow. That way, you'll always harness its soul and it will harness yours."

He blows out the candle and murmurs a final goodnight, and I lay awake for many minutes before falling asleep and dreaming of trees murmuring and bows with a beating heart under its wooden shell. 

...

I open my eyes and look down at my bow at my feet. It's not the same bow, the bow that once meant everything to me. My father's bow is long gone, destroyed, probably at the bottom of a river by now. I have nothing of my family, nothing to remind me of the girl I once was and where I came from. I've lost everything.

A thought like that can torment a person, rip them apart by the very seams of their existence. I feel a wavering moment of tragic loss and suffocating fear—who am I anymore? I'm not Eonwe Jorgiis, the girl who dreamed of being a hunter and of being a wife and mother one day. I'm not the girl who played with twigs and stones, pretending that my twig-soldiers had to reinforce the wall before a bigger stone broke it down.

Instead, I'm one of those soldiers, building up a wall only to see it being broken down and battered to pebbles. I'm being chased by dragons and demons and all in between. I've just been running and running, following the orders of strangers and leaping into business that I never believed existed. Business that I should have never been a part of…

I stand and walk to the edge of the walkway, looking down into the murky water. My reflection is faint and shivering, my face dabbled in green shadow. I hardly recognize myself—gaunt cheekbones and tangled hair. I'm worn and hurting and I have no Ma or Pa to turn to for a hug. Tears burn my eyes and I hardly hold back my sob of despair.

I want to go home. I want to leave this all behind. I don't want to be the Dragonborn and save the world. I don't want to be in Skyrim anymore. The moment I stepped into this place, I lost more than just my family.

"Who am I?" I whimper, looking at my reflection with blurry eyes. "Who are you, girl?"

_Who am I supposed to be?_


	7. Ch7 - Under Dire Circumstances (Eonwe)

The walkway creaks underfoot as I make my way to the stairs alongside the first bridge into Riften—this miserable little city. Climbing up, I wipe the tears off of my face and give a determined sniff. I may not be in the happiest of moods, but I have a duty to perform. I cannot abandon Esbern, especially with the Thalmor out looking for him. What would Delphine say if I ran back to her without Esbern present? "You're the Dragonborn!" she'd likely exclaim. "It's your job to defeat Alduin, and yet you can't even find a single man?"

Cringing at the thought of getting an earful, I realize that the worst of my problems has only begun. Three lithe, tall men are coming through the main gates, their ordinate golden armour partly obscured under heavy grey cloaks. I hardly have to look to recognize those angular faces and the recognizable detail engraved into that armour.

Thalmor.

I race back down the stairs and with a brief flutter of fearful hesitation, I quickly move into the shelter of a jutting wall under the stairs. Within seconds, with my heart thundering along like a galloping horse, and the Thalmor are just a foot away from my hiding place as they clomp down the creaky wooden stairs. They never notice me as they cross over the makeshift bridge laid over the canal, and they round around the corner, their voices and footsteps becoming more and more distant.

I only climb back up once I'm certain they aren't coming back around, but only once I feel eyes watching, as cold as the water dribbling under my collar and down my back. I see no one looking my way, and I try to keep my undoubtedly pale face smooth and free of my inner turmoil. I wander along the dryside of Riften, where all of the finer houses are separated from the marketplace and the shops by the canal, and I feel my legs turn to jelly as I come to a barrel just before the temple. I grip the rim and lean against the wall.

The Thalmor are here. They're looking for Esbern, and they could quite possibly be looking for me. My teeth are chattering in my mouth from fear and I play the likely-to-happen scene out in my head. Delphine will be so angry and I'll have failed. I may as well say that hope would be lost if the Thalmor find Esbern before I do.

_But what if they didn't? What if...I found him first?_

My head raises and I am looking across to the marketplace. My feet are carrying me forward, across the bridge and into the heart of Riften. My time is wearing thin and I need to know where Esbern is. There's only one person who can help me now, and for him to give me the answers I want, I will have to set my morals aside and do what is necessary.

Brynjolf is standing at his stall in the market, clutching a red vial and showing it to a woman. The woman is enthralled by his description of the liquid which, sickeningly, reminds me of blood. She goes on to talk about her research into a variation of diseases that can travel in the blood, and as Brynjolf rolls his eyes in displeasure, he spots me lingering beside the drywell. I bite my lip, knowing I cannot flee this time. I straighten my spine, release my lip from my tooth, and stride towards the waiting Nord.

"This is an interesting potion," the woman says, noticing me brush up alongside her, and she fumbles with a purse to gather her money quickly. The purse falls from her hand and lands between us. I kneel quickly and scoop it up, offering it to her. The action is so parallel to what Brynjolf did earlier and I keep my eyes fixed on the woman's face rather than look at the waiting merchant. She smiles gratefully and ushers me forward, murmuring, "You go on ahead, dear. I just need to count my change."

"Thanks," I reply, and I at last look at Brynjolf. He's staring at me with a light smile. I'm certain that both of us are nervous from our earlier encounter.

"Hello," I decide to say.

"Hello, lass," he replies. "Care to purchase a bottle of my Falmer Blood Elixir? It can make all of your problems go away."

"Ah, I've heard stories of that elixir," I decide to play along, and to try to get my message across as shrouded as possible. "I hear it can turn people invisible so they can steal trinkets all of kinds. Necklaces, jewels…" I stare hard into his eyes. "And rings."

Brynjolf gaps at me for a split second before swallowing and nodding his head. "Aye, I hear it can do that too. The possibilities are endless. Of course, it's different for every person. It's also said it can persuade people to do what others want them to."

"Would that include convincing them to act as experiments for alchemy projects?" the woman beside us asks, still fumbling about in her purse. I see about eight coins in her hand. "Ah, darn. How much did you say that elixir was?"

"Forty," Brynjolf reminds her, patiently.

"I'll have to run back to the shop and get the rest of my money. I'd only come out to see if anyone had a small dagger or some nightshade," she giggles. "I'll be right back." She scurries off, her curses only audible above the murmuring of the thinning crowd.

Brynjolf and I watch her go before he returns his attention to me. "What changed your mind, lass?"

'The Thal…I mean," I hardly catch myself from blurting out the full truth, but I see Brynjolf's eyebrows furrow in alarm at my half-pronounced word. "I need to know where Esbern is, now. I'll do that errand you wanted me to do, but I really need directions."

"Are you sure about this?" Brynjolf asks softly. "You muck this up and you're not getting that gold I promised."

"I don't care!" I hardly refrain from shouting and I clench my fist. "I don't mind. I just need what I came here for. Please."

My plea must have worked magic on Brynjolf because he leans closer to me, beckoning me forward with a finger. "I'm going to cause a distraction to gather the crowd's attention," he whispers. "You get that ring from the strongbox and plant it on Brand-Shei. I don't know how long the distraction will last, but you'll have to move quickly. I'll do the best I can, so long as you pull your own weight too. Got it, lass?" I nod, eager to get this done and over with.

Brynjolf winks, then raises the vial of elixir into the air and shouts, "Everyone, everyone! Gather 'round. I have something _amazing_ to show you that demands your attention."

Heads are turning as I am moving the opposite way around the drywell as casually as I can muster. I keep my eyes lowered as to not draw attention and I stand behind the drywell, my eyes fixed on Madesi's stall. The Argonian is lingering, testing my patience, locking the steel treasure trove of glimmering jewelry and shining gems. He tucks the key into his pocket and shuffles over towards Brynjolf with a bemused yawn.

Keeping my head low, I sneak as low to the ground as I can, my eyes peeled for guards. I make it to the stand and crouch behind it, pressed against the slide door. I'm pulling a lock pick free from my pocket and I'm fumbling with the lock, watching the steel crest of a guard's helmet disappear behind the wall I'm crouching behind. The lock clicks open and I slide the door aside, then reach for the strongbox. It's locked as well.

Cursing, I work the lock and I let my ears listen to Brynjolf's distraction.

"C'mon Brynjolf," the Dunmer—Brand-Shei—is saying. "What is it this time?"

"Patience, Brand-Shei," Brynjolf replies, his tone compelling and oddly husky. "This is a rare opportunity, and I wouldn't want you to get left out."

The lock pick breaks as I recognize his words slightly aimed at me to hurry through with the plan, and I curse softly. I hear a guard pass by behind the wall, mere inches from my vulnerable hiding spot. I find another lock pick, and unfortunately my last one, in my pocket and my heart skips a beat. If it breaks, I'm screwed.

Madesi's voice is an irritated hiss and Brynjolf chuckles. "_That_ was a simple misunderstanding, but this item is the real thing. Lads and lasses," his voice raises and I feel the lock click open. "I give you Falmer Blood Elixir!"

"Oh, come on now!" Brand-Shei scoffs. "Are you talking about the Snow Elves now?"

"The one and only," Brynjolf replies.

"Do you really expect to buy this load of bull he's spinning?" the woman selling armour throws in, and I swallow a laugh at how ridiculously right she is. I open the lid of the strongbox and pluck out the silver ring in the midst of golden coins and jeweled silver necklaces. I slide the door shut and poke my head out to survey the scene. I see the group clustered together, arguing about whether or not it could be Snow Elf blood. I wait for the passing guard to disappear out of sight, then creep my way around the edge of the marketplace out of everyone's sight.

"Mystical beings who live in legends and were masters of great magic. Imagine the power that coursed through their veins!" Brynjolf is weaving his words into the crowd's minds, and I cannot help but listen as I slowly make my way about. The man has a way about him—the ability to conjure up ideas and thoughts by merely speaking. I feel a flush of self-disgust; he managed to convince me into doing this silly task when I could have simply asked Keerava in the bar or someone else—someone who wouldn't have forced me into thievery. Brynjolf left an impression, and manipulated my mind into running right back to him to do his dirty work.

_What an arse._

"How did you get that then?" Madesi asks, and a few others voices raise to support him.

"My sources must remain a secret for their own protection but I can promise the contents are genuine," comes the reply I almost expected to hear. It's the reply of a liar.  
Brand-Shei is sitting on the boxes to the side of his stall. "How much does it cost?" he asks.

"Twenty gold septims," Brynjolf says, and the Dunmer rubs his forehead in consideration.

I sneak into the cramped space behind his stall while his head is down, stopping to quickly right a tipping cast iron cooking pot before it clatters to the ground and gathers everyone's attention. I edge closer to Brand-Shei, my eyes fixed on the back of his head. Ring in hand, I reach for his pocket and with an erratic heart pounding in my throat, I grasp the edge of the fabric.

_Don't…mess…up…  
_  
I drop the ring and slide backwards, moving on tiptoe to the wall and straightening. "Well, I see that my time is up. Come back tomorrow if you wish to buy!" Brynjolf announces, and I hear Brand-Shei's curse as he realizes that his decision on buying or not has been made for him. What he doesn't know is that a foreign object now rests in his pocket.

I ruffle my hair free from where it's snagged under my armour and let myself mingle into the dispersing crowd, and drift towards Brynjolf. I've done it, the job is over, and now I can get my directions and find Esbern. I push past Madesi, who gives an irritated grunt and says, "What a waste of time," and I sigh. No one saw me, and no one will ever know.

"Looks like I chose the right person for the job. And here…your payment as I'd promised. See that you put that to good use," Brynjolf smiles and drops a heavy coin purse into my hand. I look down at it and for the first time since I've entered the gates of Riften, I feel a blossom of happiness. It doesn't last long as I remember what vile thing I had to do to earn it.

'The way things have been going around here," he continues, oblivious to my shift in mood. "It's a relief that our plan went off without a hitch."

"_Your_ plan," I correct, letting myself slide back into old boots as I tuck my coin purse into my pocket. "What's been going on, though?"

Brynjolf rubs the back of his neck, tiredly I note. "Bah. My organization's been having a run of bad luck, but I suppose that's just how it goes. But never mind that," he forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You did the job and you did it well. Best of all, there's more where that came from…if you think you can handle it?"

"No," I say, and it suddenly feels good to rebel and be me for a change, rather than someone's pawn. "It was wrong to do those things to poor Brand-Shei. I'm no...I'm not a thief."

Brynjolf scowls. "Arrogant, eh? Play it however you want, but listen up," he growls, and my warm feeling of satisfaction is gone. "The group I represent has its home in the Ratway beneath Riften…a tavern called the Ragged Flagon."

"So?" I am definitely tempting fate. "What are you going to do? Send your little group after me to drag me down there to carry out more of your-"

"That's enough!" Brynjolf snaps, interrupting my sneer, and his hand twitches. I take a step back, my eyes growing round in alarm, giving myself distance between the two of us.

Brynjolf notices; he clenches his hand and lets out a breath. He almost reminds me of a dragon and from the way he is struggling to calm himself down; he knows he's agitating me as much as I am him.

"When you come to your senses," he finally says. "Find me there and we'll discuss your future." He slides by me and starts to make his way to the doors of The Bee and Barb. I blink; I've forgotten something.

"W-wait!" I exclaim, whirling to hurry after him. I almost wish I hadn't called for him because the look on his face is enough to lock my knees in place.

"_What?_" his tone is livid. "Shall I entertain you a bit more?"

"Where is Esbern?" I demand. The female Dunmer selling food looks our way worriedly from the tone of our voices, but I hardly register it. I'm done with this man's attitude.

"Oh, so now you're expecting free information?"

"I planted that damned ring for you, so you're going to tell me where he is, or else!" I hiss, my hand going for my dagger. Brynjolf's hand flashes out and his fingers coil around my wrist before I can pull my dagger free. The Dunmer is shifting away from us, certain to signal a guard. I notice, but I'm too angry to care.

"Pulling a weapon in the middle of a busy city?" he raises an eyebrow. "Now that's plain foolish."

"Look," I say, letting go of the dagger and jerking my hand free from his grip. "I came here to find Esbern before someone else does. And they've just showed up. I don't have any more time to mess around."

Brynjolf crosses his arms and regards me thoughtfully. I am torn between lunging for his throat and bursting out of my skin. I do neither, simply because the results of either would be bad. My toes start bouncing in my boots. The Nord studies me a bit longer, a smirk curling his lips.

"Yeah, I bet I know your guy," he finally utters, clearly enjoying pissing me off. "He's hiding out in the Ratway Warrens. Paying us good coin for no one to know about it."

I'm whirling away from Brynjolf and towards the nearest set of stairs before he even finishes his description, and I don't even bother to give him my thanks. He doesn't deserve it, and I don't have time to give it.


	8. Ch8 - Kindness Goes a Long Way (Eonwe)

The Ratways are damp and dingy. I enter with my bow in hand, the sound of nearby voices echoing off the walls and right to my listening ears. Whoever is in here is clearly not concerned about springing intruders…or perhaps they don't expect anyone to come down here at all.

I move as silently as I can with an arrow already notched and ready to fly. I step over a woodcutter's axe lying plainly in the firelight casting a golden light on the wet ground. Water drip, drip, drips down the walls in slimy trails and onto the floor in tiny pools that turn bright then dark as I pass over them. My boots squish and squelch and I try not to think about what I could be walking on. It is a sewer after all.

I step into a cut out in the wall and look down through the metal grate to the next level below. I hear the chilling squeaks and shrieks of skeevers—massive rats just as quick and deadly as trolls of one isn't paying attention.

The sound of voices is louder, closer, just down the hall and around the corner where a brightly lit torch burns cheerily. I peer around the corner and see two visible shadows wavering in the light. One is a slender figure with a bow on his back, the other seems bulky and carries a large two-hander. They haven't noticed me a mere twenty feet away, and for that, I am thankful. I target the shoulder of the slender figure just beginning to edge around the corner when my feet strike something loud and heavy. I flinch at the sudden noise rather than the pain biting my toes.

"What was that?" a slithering voice whispers. I hear a war hammer being unsheathed and I hide back around the corner, clutching my bow and silently cursing myself. The only noise, other than my heart hammering in my ears, is the rapid breathing of a barrel-chested man inching his way down the hall towards my hiding place. I drop my arrow to my side and reach into my belt to unsheathe my dagger.

"Who's there?" comes the gruff voice right beside my ear. I whirl and drive the dagger into the first piece of exposed flesh I see. The huge man howls as the dagger sinks into his bulging forearm. I raise my foot and kick him as hard as I can in the middle, knocking him backwards just enough, and my hand is snatching a new arrow. The Nord looks up with a dog-like growl as he sees the glinting arrow pointed at his face. My identity is hidden by shadow.

"Archer!" he snaps. "Do you think you can best me?" He reaches up, wraps his fingers around the dagger and rips it out of his flesh with a sucking sound. It clatters to the floor and he raises his war hammer with a half-snarl half-laugh. "You'd better run!"

He advances towards me, war hammer rising into the air, and I let my arrow fly. It strikes his armour without so much as denting it, and the shaft of it snaps on contact. I skitter away as the war hammer soars through the air, but misses me by mere inches, crashing into the stone floor below and sending sparks flying. I sling my bow over my back and my feet keep moving backwards as the Nord lifts his war hammer with a grunt and advances towards me.

"I'm gonna bash your skull in!" he growls. I reach for my sword but it's not there. My memory reminds me that I left it in the frost troll's skull in The Reeking Cave.

Time seems to slow, just for an instant, but in that instant I act quickly. I raise my hand and cast a fireball spell, and flick it towards the charging Nord. He ducks, the flames igniting his hair as it whizzes overhead, and it strikes the Nord archer raising his bow skulking at the end of the tunnel.

The archer's agonized cry rings through the tunnel as a war hammer swings free from the Nord's hands, spinning at deadly speed towards my head. I jerk aside, the war hammer whipping past my head, and I jump back out into the open, bow drawn. I release the arrow and it soars with a _twang!  
_  
The Nord drops with a lifeless thump.

I step over the still-convulsing body, retrieving my dagger as I go, and march over to the cowering archer hiding beside a flaming brazier. I start to raise my bow when he raises his hands and cries, "Wait!" I pause and glare at him through slatted eyes.

The archer is built thin and wiry like a Wood Elf, but his face and accent are definitely Nordic. He stands from his kneeling position and stutters, "We were not going to harm anyone. Hewnon and I were just…" He breaks off, glimpsing Hewnon—the war hammer-wielding Nord—lying dead on the ground in the shadows behind me. His face twists in…fear? Or anger?

"You attacked me without so much a warning," I hiss. "Is that your way of welcoming stragglers and wanderers?"

"No, no," the archer frets. "We—I mean _I_—were only every trying to go through with our plans. I couldn't let anyone discover us down here. There'd be consequences, you know."

"Oh, yes," I snarl. "There'd be consequences alright. What exactly _were _you planning on doing down here?"

I must look frighteningly intimidating, because the archer can hardly speak without squeaking like a milk-drinker, "The Thieves Guild! We were plotting to overthrow the Thieves Guild!"

I return my bow to my back and cross my arms with a smirk. "You and…Hewnon? Just the two of you? I don't suppose you'll be doing that now that he's dead." The archer looks queasy with worry as I continue. "Perhaps I should just take you to this _Thieves Guild._ I'm certain that they'd love to hear your plans." I reach for the archer and he jolts away before I can wrench him forward.

"You can't do that! I demand that you let me go…_safely._"

"Who's going to stop me?" I ask.

"Heh," he chuckles. "No one, I suppose. Oh, what am I saying?" The tension leaves his shoulders and he crosses his arms, considering me with a focused eye and a cold smile. "So after all these years, Brynjolf is still sending you folks down here to your fate. The daft bugger he is…

"I'll let you go on ahead. Can't say it will be safe, or easy. All sorts of folk looking for a fight down here," he sidesteps and points to a tunnel around the corner. "Follow that and cross the bridge. You'll find your way to the Ragged Flagon in no time."

"How do you know I'm headed to the Flagon?" I ask suspiciously.

"Why else does anyone come down here?" the archer shrugs. "It's either Hewnon takes care of them, or we let them by. It was easier to take care of everyone rather than let them go and risk our chances.

"Be sure to _not _tell Brynjolf about my and Hewnon's little operation. I couldn't possibly afford to hire an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood." The archer suddenly laughs bitterly. "It's as though no one in the Ratways can afford a thing. Best to leave this place while I still have legs."

"You'd best hurry," I threaten and the archer purses his lips, fluttering a hand and turning away to leave the sewer. I watch him disappear into the shadows and stop by Hewnon before turning my back and following the dimly lit tunnel to the bridge he was talking about.

Unfortunately, the bridge is raised and I see no other way down or across. I glimpse the lever for the bridge on the far side and I groan, digging my fingers into my hair. I cast a candlelight spell and the sparkling light illuminates the shadowy room. The floor isn't too far below, and I see a skeever eating something with rapid haste in the corner. I look down further, careful not to slip, and spy an iron wrought gate below the bridge.

With delicate precautions in order, I swing myself down over the edge and drop to the floor, dispatching the skeever as it charges towards me with a defensive squeak. I approach the gate and notice the lock has been bashed, and I relish in my luck at not having to scramble for an absent lock pick. I let the gate swing open quietly and I climb the steps, my dagger in hand as I hear muttering. I glimpse a man sitting at a shabby table, eating something moldy whilst reading a book. I walk up behind him, holding my breath, until I'm close enough to read the pages in his book.

I raise my dagger to cut his throat, but something about it feels wrong.

Hands trembling, I tap the man's shoulder instead. He jumps, looking at me in undisguised shock, and reaches for a dagger at his side. I see a hole in his worn tunic and the stains on his pants, and I study his face. Underneath all the grime and dirt, he's just a boy, younger than me. I feel my chest numb with sadness.

"Hold on," I tell him as he raises his dagger and mumbles a half-hearted threat. I reach into my pocket, slowly, and produce my coin purse. I offer it to the boy. He stares at me like I've grown a second head.

"What's this?" he asks.

"Money for something warm to eat," I reply softly. "There's enough to buy a bed in the tavern or to take the cart away from Riften. You could probably find work on a farm, or chop some wood for a tavern..."

"Are you…are you serious?" the boy exclaims. "Why are you…?"

I shake my head. "You're just a kid, and I…I don't know why. I just didn't want to kill you."

"By the Nine…thank you," he blesses me and takes the coin purse. One hundred gold…gone. I don't mind, though. The boy's eyes are brighter than the sun.

"Can you tell me how to get to the Ragged Flagon, boy?" I ask, starting to turn away before he sees the tears in my eyes. The boy points towards the door at the end of the  
room. "Through there. Be careful. Those people are…well, let's just say they aren't kind to strangers."

"Thank you," I murmur. "Take care."

The boy scrambles away as I walk towards the ominous wooden door, my heart in my throat and tears of charity burning my eyes. The door creaks open gently as I pull the handle, and I step inside.


	9. Ch9 - What We Need (Brynjolf)

"Give it up, Brynjolf," Vekel plunks a tankard onto the counter for Delvin Mallory, who accepts it gratefully and guzzles a dribbling mouthful, much to little Vex's distaste. "Those days are over."

"Are they?" I question, slamming my fist down the counter, and Delvin passes me a concerned glance. "Imagine us, emptying the pockets of every wealthy bastard in Skyrim and swimming in gold once more!"

Vekel looks void and disinterested, and I sigh. "Look at us, hiding like rats. Look at you, Vekel. What ever happened to one of the greatest infiltrators the guild ever knew?"

"He injured his back and settled for serving drinks in a floundering tavern," Vekel stops cleaning a spotless mug, placing it on the counter with a feeble bang. His gaze his hard and devoid of the master thief he once was. Delvin snorts at Vekel and pushes his tankard at the bartender. "You met Tonilia and you got old, and that's the ruddy truth, Vekel," he corrects. "You haven't done a bloody thing for twenty-odd years except clean off tables and pour ale."

"And clean up your mess and watch the doors," Vekel adds sharply. "But as I said, those days are long gone, Brynjolf. Don't go chasing the past, and don't include me in it if and when it comes up to bite you on the ass."

"It won't," I snap. "I won't believe that. This guild has seen hard days, but we've always managed!"

Delvin rests a hand on my shoulder and smiles sadly.

"I have to agree with Vekel, mate," the Breton murmurs. "The guild is fallin' apart. We can't fix her—no one can. Not even this wonder of a girl could."

"But that's where you're wrong, lads," I scoff, pushing off the edge of the counter and standing, crossing my arms over my chest. "This one is different."

"How different is she to the last?" Vekel asks. "Nettie was a decent pickpocket but look what happened to her! She couldn't even finish Vex's sweep job without getting her head lopped off."

"It was an arrow to the knee, from what I heard" Tonilia speaks up from the corner out on her little pier.

"'Twas an arrow to the back, but it donna matter," Delvin raises his hands to stop everyone else from pitching in. "Look at us. We donna even remember how our old mates died 'round here. All we seem to care about is the gold."

"Isn't that all we _should _care about?" Vex drones from Delvin's other side. "Since when has friendship and drinks around the fire mattered in the Thieves Guild? We're thieves, Delvin, not happy-go-lucky merchants or shop owners.

"You sold us the same sack of crap then, Brynjolf. What makes you think we'll listen now when it's already been said and done?"

I stare at Vex, cruel words stuck in my throat. She's right, our little Vex is always right as rain, and I hate it. I want to be right for once. I want there to be change, _just for once.  
_  
"I haven't seen ten thousand gold come down that ladder since Gallus was alive," Delvin says, longing and sadness weaving on his tone. "What makes you think this girl of yours will change anything? Like I've always said, '_We're cursed_'".

Vex strikes the Breton's shoulder with a painful _thwapping_ sound. "Enough with the superstitions, Delvin!" she growls, sliding off her barstool and meandering over to her favourite spot against the empty shipment boxes. Delvin rubs his arm in mock-pain, just to needle her a bit more. He knows she hates it, and he loves to piss her off.

Instead of smiling and settling in for a warm ale, or giving up and making my way into the cistern, I hear a low "ahem?" come from behind us all. I, and everyone else, turn and see a slender figure step out from the gloom at the entrance of the tavern and into the light of the lanterns hung around the tables. Her hair is unkempt and her eyes are wide and wary, but it's her. Relief is like sinking into a hot bath on a cold night, and I am giddy with triumph.

"Who's that?" Delvin asks over a swig of mead.

"A little wonder I've been telling you about," I reply softly. Delvin looks at me with furrowed brows.

"I was really startin' to believe you were kiddin', Bryn."

"Heh," I laugh. "Well, what do you call that, then?

The lass is standing rigid, her attention shifting from face to face as we all study her. I gesture for her to approach and she does, her movements stiff. I wonder why she should be so wary, and I remember that our last encounter ended on a bad note.

"Well, colour me impressed, lass. I wasn't certain I'd ever see you again," I say. She laughs humourlessly. "It wasn't much of a challenge, although I'm not considering that you intended it to be one."

"Ah," I raise my eyebrows and I hear Delvin croaky laugh behind me. "Reliable _and _headstrong? What more are you hiding from us?"

"There's a lot more to me than what meets the eye…" is her guarded reply. Her tone is teasing but her eyes are uninviting, and I believe her. She's hiding a secret behind those icy green orbs. I want to unlock the mystery of this wondrous girl.

"I know," I find myself murmuring, and Delvin jabs me in the side with a low snicker. I cough into my hand and put on my serious façade. "I mean…You're turning out to be quite the prize.

"So, let's put that to the test."

Her eyebrows lift as I direct her to one of the tables, and Vekel places a pair of Black-Briar meads on the table between us. The lass looks at them for a moment before returning her attention to me.

"Now that I've whetted your appetite with our little scheme in the market, how about handling a few deadbeats for me?"

"Deadbeats?" she asks, tilting her head and spilling a cascade of tangled hair over one shoulder. "What'd they do to deserve a name like that?" Humour rings on her tone.

"They owe our organization some serious coin and they've decided not to pay. Your job…" I fold my arms. "Is to explain to them the error of their ways."

"And how am I to do that?" she quirks an eyebrow. "_Beat _it out of them? Have you _maybe_ considered that they _don't_ have the money to pay your…organization?"  
"It's either they pay or they suffer the consequences," I say sharply. "There's no in between with us."

The lass' face becomes a cold, blank sheet and any interest I'd gained from her is suddenly gone and out like a light. She leans back on her chair and crosses her arms, regarding me with a stony stare, and I am reminded of our confrontations. It's not a good feeling at all.

"So…you expect people to give you money for no reason at all, and if they don't, you send someone to take them down? What kind of crap are you running down here, Brynjolf?" she snarls, and Delvin muffles a laugh with a cough at the counter. "What exactly are you attempting to pull me into?"

"A simple job," I correct. "We aren't the Dark Brotherhood or anything. We absolutely do not kill unless we must, and these folks haven't done anything to provoke or threaten us."

"I'm not with the Dark Brotherhood. I've just been a target of theirs for some time," she says. "I think I can tell the difference between assassins and…thieves."  
Delvin looks our way through half-lidded eyes, and she notices. "Is something wrong?"

"No," I shake my head. "Delvin Mallory was part of the Dark Brotherhood a long time ago. He was…well, let's just say he left because of creative differences."

"I left because things fell out between me and their leader," the Breton pipes up, coming to join us at the table with his mead. He plunks down with a sigh. "It was real different in those days. I left the same time that the rules did, and I've never looked back. It's a hell of a lot better here, though, despite all the trouble. I'm still on decent terms with their leader, donna you worry."

"As I was saying, we aren't the Dark Brotherhood here," I reiterate. "Bodies tend to get expensive to get rid of, so we do our best to avoid it. Of course, that means it's harder for us, but we manage. It's all about staying out of sight, avoiding guards with full pockets, using the Shadowmark system..."

"The Shadow-what?" she asks.

"Yeah," Delvin answers. "You'll see little symbols carved into doors and walls in the cities, created by yours truly," he points his thumbs at his chest. "I got a book on 'em if you're interested?" He stands and wanders off to the bookshelves along the wall, his humming audible from where we're sitting.

"So what are you then, if you're not the Dark Brotherhood?" the lass asks me.

"Just an organization. The guards like to call us the 'City under the city', if that helps," I smirk as she huffs impatiently. "If you do this job right, we'll tell you."

"What is the job?"

"Keerava, Bersi Honey-Hand and Haelga. They debt is secondary, honestly," I add as her eyes become guarded once again, and I reflect on how distrusting she is. "It's more important that you get the message across that _we aren't to be ignored._ Use something to their advantage; for example, Haelga is a devout follower of Dibella. She has a statue in the bunkhouse. You'd probably get her to cave if you threaten to drop it down a well." The lass nods in understanding, but from what I think I understand of her morals, it probably doesn't appeal to her.

I remember when I was young and I accidentally stole an apple pie for my Ma and forgot to pay. I was only five, so it should have seemed a mere mistake, but the baker nearly flayed me in the middle of the street. The thought of stealing again should have frightened me to the core, but it didn't.

Instead, it did the exact opposite.

"Here's the book, love," Delvin announces, placing a dusty volume in front of her. The Thieves Guild symbol is carved into the cover, and I see recognition flutter through her eyes as she sees it. _Perhaps she saw it on the sarcophagus in the graveyard?  
_  
"Ah, I'll get to this later. I have other business to attend to," she quickly tells us, raising her hands for emphasis.

_Well, it could have been worse._ She could have turned me down completely right in front of the gang. I can almost imagine—Delvin would nag me about it for months, maybe even years. The Breton is back sitting on his barstool drinking the remainder of his mead quietly, but I'm due for an earful the moment the lass leaves.

"Aye. I almost forget—Esbern," I smile apologetically as she stands quickly, pushing the book towards me and making her way to the door that leads into the Vaults.

"Take care in there, lass. There's all kinds of strange people living down there," I warn.

"I'll just have to keep my eyes open," the lass smiles grimly. "And walk in the shadows."

Her words are so close to one of the Guild's mottos that I laugh. "That would be best," I say.

She pulls the door handle and takes a step forward, but pauses and glances back at me. "Eonwe," she says.

"Hm?" I frown. She smiles tenderly and my lips mimic the movement.

"My name. It's Eonwe," she repeats, then steps through the door and disappears into the Vaults. I stand there for a second, registering what she said and say a quiet little "Oh," before returning to the bar. Delvin is staring at me in mock-disappointment. I smack his shoulder before he can speak, and he heaves a maniacal whistling laugh. I try not to blush or throttle him, and although the latter is inviting, the former is too hard to avoid.

"Only now you get the girl's name?" he finally croaks once his laughter subsides. "She's as good as dead, Bryn."

"Wh-what? What do you mean?" I stammer confusedly. Delvin shakes his head, clearing his throat and taking a swig of a bottle of ale Vekel placed before him.  
"There's Thalmor down there. About a dozen of them arrived before you got back. They wanted safe passage and all that typical nonsense that every bloody army wants."

"They're down there right now?" I glower. "I never saw them come in."

"Sapphire did. She saw them take the bridge closest to the gates. Made it back just before they came through that door," Delvin nods.

I start to lean back but stop as I remember there's no back to my seat. I stand and pace in a semi-circle. Something about this is wrong, but why can't I remember-  
It strikes me over the head as sudden as a clap of thunder. I grab Delvin and grip him under the collar, ignoring his startled curse and exclaim, "Are they looking for Esbern?"

"Uh…Brynjolf, calm down," he splutters and I let go.

"Well?"

"Yeah, they're looking for him. Hey, hold on. Didn't Etienne say-"

"Aye. He said the Thalmor were looking for Esbern," I run my fingers through my hair and Eonwe's face comes to mind. I start to dismiss it, but it all clicks together. Eonwe arriving in time with the Thalmor, Etienne's rescuer, and Esbern. It all fit together now.

"I start for the door but Delvin grabs my arm. "Hey! Where you goin', mate?"

"I…Eonwe. She..." I fumble over my words and the Breton gaps at me keenly. The words finally land on my tongue. "She saved Etienne from the Thalmor! They're going to kill her if we don't-"

"Bryn, wait a second," he yanks on my arm when I try to pull away and I glare at him. Why doesn't he realize how important this is? "Think about what you're doin'."  
"I am," I growl.

"No, listen. This girl managed to plant a ring for you, and she released Etienne from the Thalmor prison. But she isn't one of us, Bryn," Delvin tries to explain. "You can't just run after a girl you know nothin' about. It's not like she's…I dunno…Vex or me. She aint' your wife or something special."

I rub my eyes and realize that he's right, just as there's a loud bang at the entrance to the tavern. Vekel clears his throat with a loud harrumph, and we all turn to look at our visitors.

Two Thalmor soldiers are marching around the edge of the pool in the middle of the room, followed by a sour-looking mage. I pass Delvin a troubled glance.

"Etienne saw something in her, and I do too," I tell him softly. "You can tell me all you want how I'm just dreaming of what will never be, but I have a feeling about Eonwe."

"Whatever you say, Bryn," Delvin sighs in submission. "If you think she's the key to fix all the trouble the guild's got, then I'm with you. But if she ain't, then you'll be the one paying for the flowers on your grave."

"Deal," I reply as the Thalmor approach. "Now let's take care of business and buy the lass some time."


	10. Ch10 - A Cornered Rat (Eonwe)

Other than the eerie green light coming from the holes in the ceiling and six Thalmor—both mages and soldiers—pacing back and forth along the walkways, the Vaults aren't that bad. It could be worse.

My first thought is too not gather so much attention, and my second thought is why no one warned me that the Thalmor were already down here searching for the hiding Blade. I knew they were already in the city, but I hadn't realized that they'd already gallivanted down into the Vaults. I vaguely wonder if the unusual people back in the shady tavern were trustworthy or not; my initial and immediate answer is a strong 'no'.

It doesn't take ages to get past every single pacing Elf, but it does take a long time to be silent. I try to move about as swift as a mouse, or at least as quietly as I can in iron armour. The fact that I'm countless times bigger than a mouse makes it even more difficult, but I force myself to think like a mouse, despite how strange it might be. I stay along the walls and in the bits of shadow, watching and listening before moving.

After a time, it doesn't seem very silly at all, especially when I come up right behind a Thalmor mage and cut her throat before she has time to raise the alarm or fry me senseless with her spark spell.

The door leading out of the Vaults and into the Warrens is at the bottom, and I can see the entrance from which I came if I stand in the spilled oil on the floor. I approach the door carefully, a little frightened of what might be on the other side. The dull ring of a female voice and the humming of a man are the only sounds, other than distant clamour and groans. What is most chilling about this exploit is how _quiet _it is and how everything can be heard. I can hear a conversation carrying out between two of the Thalmor soldiers as I pass through the door and carry on beyond.

"Bucket, stone, inkpot…no, no," comes the garbled words of the woman; the way she scrabbles about and mutters can only define her as the blind woman Brynjolf mentioned. I steer clear of her as I enter a well-lit room. I see her sitting on the floor behind an iron gate, clutching a bucket and a ruined book. She begins to mutter the names of her possessions again.

I look around, wondering where Esbern might be. I see a set of stairs that lead up to a higher section, and as I climb, I glimpse a man sitting beside a fire. He's wearing a chef's hat and a bloody apron. My stomach clenches as he looks at me and flings out his hands aggressively.

I turn away and see a large, heavy door with a single slat in the center. I approach and the sense that Esbern could be behind it becomes a clearer thought. I hesitate momentarily, recalling Delphine's words: _Tell him to remember the thirtieth of Frostfall._

I knock twice and say, without being _too_ loud, "Esbern? Hello—are you in there?"

The slat, which happens to be a sliding window, is yanked open after a dragging minute with a squeaky hiss, and I see a pair of wide old eyes staring at me. "No, go away."  
"Esbern, I need to talk to you," I persist.

"What…no," he stutters. "There's no Esbern in here. Go away!" he slams the window shut and I _just _stop myself from groaning in anxiety. This has just been a day of things not going as planned.

Desperate, I turn to my last and only possible option to convince the old man's mind. "Esbern. Delphine told me to tell you to 'remember the thirtieth of Frostfall'."

Silence lingers for a very long moment, and when the sliding window scrapes open again, I feel a burst of relief upon noticing the startled joy in Esbern's eyes.

"Delphine," he croaks. "She's alive? After all these years…she's still…? Oh, hold on a moment," his voice becomes gruff as he shuts the window and disappears from sight. I listen to his scrambling fingers and the sound of more than a dozen bolts being undone. I feel my eyebrows rise higher and higher as the clanking continues, and I start to feel worried as the slam of each one unlocking rings off the wet stone walls.

At last, the door scrapes open with a horrible screeching, the metal base grating against the floor and on my nerves. Esbern stands in the opening, his round little face deep lines of wary wrinkles.

"Come in, come in quickly, so that they will not find us," he ushers me in hurriedly, beckoning me with frantic little motions. I make my way in, bending slightly at the waist to avoid bumping my head against the low hanging doorframe. I notice that, as Esbern closes the door behind me and I straighten, I am taller than the man.

Esbern is short and stout, his skin wrinkled and stretched, his eyes hollow and his mouth a drooping sag. His head is balding rapidly, his scalp freckled, his jaw slack and weak. He looks tired and frail, and he stands with a slight bend, a curve to the spine. He stares up at me in curiosity.

"How is Delphine?" he asks me, a fondness entering his voice. He must miss her, which surprises me. Delphine hardly made mention of him when I spoke to her, only that she was eager to have him found. I wonder what exactly are the terms of their relationship.

"She's fine," I say, not exactly knowing what Esbern wants to hear. "She's running a tavern in Riverwood."

This seems to crack the little old man up; the smile that splits his face into half a dozen more lines brings a tender grin to my face.

"I'm astonished to hear such a thing. Are you certain that we are talking about the same person?" he asks once he calms, rubbing humoured tears from his eyes. I nod and he chuckles again. "Well, it's good to know she's safe. How did she know I would be down here?"

"Common sense," I say. "I found a dossier of you in the Thalmor Embassy, and Delphine pointed me to Riften. She figured that there was someone here who knew their way around."

"I suspect one of them folks from the little tavern directed you to me?"

"Uh hmm," I reply. "But I think we need to go. Now. The Thalmor are here and they're looking for you, Esbern," I push a bit of urgency into my tone and Esbern's face suddenly falls. He turns away, shambling across the slick floor to a chair beside a desk. He sinks into it, joints popping loudly, and stares at a collection of papers on the surface.

"Esbern?"

"There's no use, child. What difference will it make to remain here or to venture out there and risk being seen? All of this," he gestures to the air around him. "Will be gone long before next year."

"What are you talking about?" I gape at him. Has he truly fallen off of his nut?

"Don't you realize it?" a sudden strength enters his tone turning his voice into a booming command that should belong to a man, not a half-starved paranoid elder. "Don't you see the world around you? Alduin has returned and he will eat the world, just as the prophecy says. _There is no hope._"

"Alduin?" I murmur. "Is that the…black dragon?"

Esbern nods irritably. "Yes, yes. The big monstrous creature foretold to destroy the world. The son of Akatosh and the God of Destruction, they called him. And he has returned from the beginning of time to finish his work."

I approach Esbern, wondering what to say, or how to say it. All I know is that I, the Dragonborn, can defeat dragons and that I'm meant to save the world. This dragon—Alduin—this nightmare that started all of this for me, is the reason I'm here. I wonder how things would have been if he didn't exist, or if I didn't. I stare at Esbern, feeling myself become lost in the agonized curves of his brow and jaw, and thoughtlessly say, "There is hope."

"Hmm? What are you jabbering on about?" he starts, glaring at me.

"I…Esbern, I need to tell you," I come around the desk and crouch in front of him, taking his wrinkled hands. He looks confused and suspicious, but I know that telling him will change his mind, open his eyes, and perhaps give him light.

"Esbern, I'm the Dragonborn—the Dovahkiin. I'm…I'm here."

For a moment, I believe the old man didn't hear me, but I know when he's understood. His eyes glow and his face beams, and he leans forward abruptly in the chair spluttering, "Is this true? You really are…ah. We must go."

"I'm here," I repeat dumbly, stunned as he stands and starts to dart about his room, gathering an armful of papers as he goes. He at last dumps them into a pot, lights a torch and sets the papers ablaze.

"What are you doing?" I exclaim.

"We mustn't leave clues for the Thalmor. This is all very important," he prods at the smoldering pages with a long iron stick. "We must remain ahead of them and get to Sky Haven Temple."

"Where?" I can hardly hear him over the scraping of his stick on the pot. He shakes his head, peeking into the pot with a satisfied grunt, then rushes to the little chest at the base of his bed. He pulls out a pair of leather boots that appear to be at least three decades old, and a fur cloak. He tugs it all on, tucks a slip of aged paper into a pocket, weighs a coin purse, then turns to me with a smile. "Alright, let's go."


	11. Letter from the Author

**To my dearest readers; **

As you can see, this is not the eleventh chapter of _Thief and Shadow. _In fact, it is a letter that I have taken time to write to let you know why _Thief and Shadow _has, essentially, frozen.

I found myself struggling to write the next chapter because I was noting several inconsistencies, errors and a lot more. Eonwe's character didn't have a solid ground to stand on and I didn't exactly have a plan to follow. Over the time writing what I did, Eonwe became a completely different character and I sat down to write everything from family history to how her personality changes and shifts. It was made clear to me that I was not happy with _Thief and Shadow _as it was, and I had the burning desire to start over, which I attempted to put off multiple times. But...it won.

I am currently in the stages of rewriting the first chapter. It is currently over four thousand words (as compared to about 2,000 or so) and I am actually very happy with it. I will not be publishing it anytime soon, as I want to take my time with it and make sure it is as I truly want it to be. When I do publish it, I hope you'll return and accept it. I can promise it will be before next year...

But a huge thank you to all of my readers, followers, favouriters and even visitors. It was your feedback that urged me to keep going, and it will be your feedback that keeps pushing me. _Thief and Shadow _will return as the first of three stories in Eonwe's planned trilogy. I hope you'll be there when she makes her entrance... :)

Lots of love,

arainyspringmorning


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